


What's left of Hardy

by LostinFic



Category: Broadchurch, Secret Diary of a Call Girl (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crossover Pairings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 08:51:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9171883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostinFic/pseuds/LostinFic
Summary: Hannah always calls Hardy on New Year’s Day, but this year she thought he could use more than a call.Trope: hurt/comfort





	

**Author's Note:**

> Set between S1 and S2 of Broadchurch

Hardy glanced at his phone for what felt like the tenth time in the last minute. He shook his head at his own foolishness and threw the mobile to the other end of the couch. Last he had heard, Hannah had a new book and a new boyfriend. Calling him would only depress her, why would she bother? But she always called, every year, on New Year’s Day. Usually she was the one who needed to talk to him, not the other way around.

Hardy sighed and returned his attention to some holiday special with Jimmy Carr— _but why always Jimmy Carr_?

He didn’t understand any of the jokes about politics, he was too out of touch with the world outside of his work. These tragedies he could do something about, albeit not as much as he wished.

Stretching across the sofa, he reached for his phone again.

_I could ring her._

Chasing the thought away, Hardy stood up and crossed the room to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Calling her, now that was a recipe for disaster. He cringed, remembering the last time he’d talked to her: he’d only just found out about Tess’s infidelity and, between his anger and desire to remain levelheaded, he’d been incoherent at best.

No wonder she hadn’t called him this year.

 

The kettle’s whistle pulled him out of his embarrassing recollection. Mug in hand, he returned to the living room where his eyes wandered to the locked drawer containing his Sandbrook case files. He could visit Claire, perhaps the holiday spirit would make her confess.

Hardy changed out of his t-shirt and sweatpants then remembered Claire had left Broadchurch to visit her family in Wales. He’d argued against that decision; Lee Ashworth would know where to find her. But in the end, he couldn’t keep her from her family. Probably for the best. No doubt she would have seen through his poor excuse and detected his loneliness.

A silhouette passed behind the bedroom curtains, and his stomach twisted in a knot of fear.

Lee Ashworth?

Hardy rushed out of the bedroom just as someone knocked on the door. He took a careful peek between the venetian blinds. What he saw made his heart beat faster: blond curls and a yellow coat; sunshine incarnate on the longest night of the year.

“What are you doing here?”

“Happy New Year to you too.” Hannah pecked his lips. “I thought you could use more than a phone call this year.”

She thrusted a paper bag in his arms, its content clinked.

“Alcohol?”

“Where are your glasses?” she asked, making her way to the kitchen. “Christ. What kind of shabby place is this?”

“Did you come all the way here to insult my home?”

“Amongst other things.”

She smirked and kissed his cheek. He pretended to be annoyed.

Hannah pulled a champagne bottle out of the paper bag, but there was something else in there: a book. Her book to be precise, entitled “New Experiences” with a strip of lace and manacles pictured on the cover. He’d have to hide it, he could only imagine Ellie’s reaction if she discovered an erotic novel in his house— if she ever came back from Devon that is.

“It’s a gift,” she explained as she popped opened the bottle.

“Classy.”

Inside the cover, he found a dedication: “May the new year bring you some ’new experiences’ of your own. Love, Hannah.”

“God’s sake, Han.”

“What? It’s true, you’re in your forties and recently divorced, it’s the best time to have a midlife crisis and get kinky with the secretary. Please tell me you shagged someone at the office party.”

He rolled his eyes. “Insults, champagne and erotica.”

“And my charming personality, of course.”

“Of course.”

She clinked her glass to his, and they took a sip, holding each other’s gaze.

“What happened to, erm…”

“Jeremy? Yeah, he dumped me before Christmas.”

“Bugger him.”

She shrugged and pulled the cowl neck of her tunic to her cheek. “He’s not that bad, just still in love with his ex. He’s a copper, did I tell you?” She smiled wistfully. “Guess I have a type.”

Hardy choked on his champagne. A type? What did that mean? Before he could ask, she’d moved to the living room.

“God is that Jimmy Carr again?”

 

They settled on the couch and she took control of the remote, flipping through channels. He sat ramrod straight, staring at her. She glanced his way, and he quickly turned to the television.

Now that the shock of her arrival had worn off, he wondered why she had come here. This year of all years. He mentally braced himself. Raising an inner shield against all the feelings rising to the surface in her presence.

She turned sideways to face him. “So, how was your year?”

“No. I’m not doing that.”

“Why not?”

“This year was shite and you know it.”

She brought her feet up on the couch and encircled her knees. With a frown, she glanced at his untouched glass of champagne. She pressed her lips in a compassionate smile. When she looked at him, he thought of that machine coroners use to reveal subdermal bruising. She could see right through him, she always could. She detected the pain he was trying to hide. Emotions swelled in him. He hated it. He didn’t want to connect with that miserable part of him: the heartache and hopelessness. The nightmares were bad enough. It was all better left buried, somewhere under his ribcage, smothering his heart.

“You alright?” she asked.

“Yep. Fine. You?”

“You’re not fine.”

“I told you: I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why not? You need to.”

He glared at her. “I’m not one of those-- those pathetic men who pay 300 quid to cry in your arms for an hour.”

“You just had to bring my job into that.” She crossed her arms.

He didn’t reply, just stared away.  He could feel the dizziness coming, a spell of lightheadedness that he tried to breathe away.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Hannah taunted him.

Arguments were not exactly a rare occurrence between them. They usually lasted longer. They enjoyed it in a way, it was familiar, and once the anger was out of the way, they could get to real feelings. His refusal to engage spoke volumes.

 

They watched the rest of the show in silence. Her fidgeting betrayed her discomfort. Neither of them laughed at any of the jokes.  As the credits rolled, she announced her departure. His attempts to hold her back were lackluster.

She sniffed as she put on her coat, but refused to meet his eyes when he spoke her name.

 

It took him an hour to get off his high horse and admit what a knob he’d been. It took another hour to work up the courage to call her and apologize. And she made him work for it.

“Alright then, come to the Trader’s.”

“What?”

She’d been too upset to endure a two-hour train journey and had checked in at the hotel instead.

“Besides I knew you would call and beg for forgiveness.”

Her words reeked of smugness, but he recognized hope in them too. She’d stayed in Broadchurch. She’d hoped.  And if he was being honest, as grumpy as his agreement to meet her may have sounded, there was hope in him too.

 

Hardy walked out in the cold to the hotel and ignored Becca’s quizzical gaze. He headed straight to Hannah’s room.

It looked the same as the one he’d rented for too long, but flipped. Hannah sitting on the bed, reminded him of how much he’d wished for her presence this year. And now she was here, sitting on the bed.

 

“You alright?” he asked her.

“Yeah. Fine… I don’t know what I was thinking coming here.”

She chuckled and there was a hint of nervousness to it. She picked at the hole in her jeans. He sat down beside her, elbows on knees. He had to ask.

“Why did you come here?”

“I always call you on New Year’s eve.”

“Yeah-- call.”

“But there’s always, you know, Tess or Daisy. This year you were alone.”

“I’m not lonely.”

“No, I didn’t mean like that… I meant, you’re alone so we can be alone.”

“Alone together.”

“Yeah.”

He searched her face, trying to decipher her meaning before his heart got carried away.

“What? Don’t look so shocked. It’s been ages since we hung out.”

“Right.”

“And I worried about you.”

“Han…” he warned.

“I know, I know. I’m not asking. It’s just, I thought you would call again. You called me after Tess… Then I saw you on the news. That poor boy. I thought you’d call again.”

“Did you want me to?”

“I guess I’d hoped… with the divorce-- I don’t know.”

And there was that voice of hers, faint, childish almost. A reminder that her confidence was just as much a façade for her as it was for him.

He’d never let himself think about her that way. Not when he was a father and a husband. But now… he swallowed thickly. His fingers itched to reach for her. Could he? Just for one night. To have her against him. Her warmth, he perfume, her laughter. His heart ached for it, but he didn’t trust himself. The walls he’d built around his heart were no match to the strength of her smile, and once they crumbled who knew what would pour out. Nothing good would come out of that. Not in the long term that is, short term, well, she would be in his arms and if that wasn’t the very definition of good, he didn’t know what was.

“It’s so hard to tell how you’re doing.” She shifted to her knees, closer to him. Her eyes scanned his face, and he jutted his chin out, clenching his jaw in a stoic mask. The look in her eyes softened. She reached for his cheek but he shrank away. She dropped her hand to his chest. Under her touch, it filled with a sharp breath. She cocked her head with a sympathetic smile.

“Han don’t—”

“I like the scruff.”

“You don’t.”

“I do. It’s very _rawr_ , you know.”

He chuckled and it released some tension from his shoulders. When she touched his cheek, he didn’t wince. His beard bristled under her thumb. He fought the feeling, he really did, but still his eyes fluttered shut.

“Alec…”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay.”

He opened his eyes, surprised she’d dropped the subject so easily.

“Okay?”

“Yeah. I think… to tell you the truth I think I’m the one who’s not well.” A twinkle in her eyes betrayed her strategy. “Can I get a cuddle? It’s for me, not for you, I swear.”

“I know what you’re doing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she sing-sang, wrapping her arms around his waist.

His hand hovered behind her head, and with a sigh, he relented and caressed her hair.

“It’s not a cuddle unless both your arms are around me,” she remarked.

“You’re a lot of work, you know that.” He hugged her-- with both arms. “Thank you.”

He rested his cheek on top of her head, making sure she wouldn’t see him tearing up.


End file.
